The Intelligence Estimate

The inevitable finally happened. Our cat Molly had to be put to sleep. Jen called me at work this afternoon and said that Molly was very weak and unresponsive this morning when she got up. Her exact words were, "I think this is Molly's last day." That got my attention. When I got back from Iowa last night I complained about how much the apartment stunk. It seemed Molly had diarrhea all weekend and had been defecating all over the apartment and herself. As a result, the apartment air was a thick, acrid fog. I bitched up a storm and finally yelled, "I can't live like this." I feel awful for having said that. I felt like Molly heard it and just gave up. She lived with incredible medical problems for almost 2 years and her whole condition changed overnight. I felt responsible. I know I'm not. I didn't give her cancer or a broken paw or a sore on her lip or a missing tooth or any of her other million maladies. But I still felt awful and selfish. I was only concerned about how the situation effected me and my sensitive nose. When Jen told me it was Molly's "last day" all I could think of was how horrible a task was ahead of us. Molly was miserable and limp and just staring off into space, not focusing on anyone or anything. When I finally caught up with them at the animal hospital Molly's breathing was very shallow and she seemed to be drooling some kind of thick white fluid. Jen brought her to the hospital in the only container we had, a green recycling bin. There's a morbid irony. I remember the serum they injected her with was pink. I remember thinking that it was an intensely festive color for such a bleak and somber task. It's also Jen's favorite color. At this very moment I don't care if I ever see the color pink again.